


commentfic - a scene from the HMS Dainty

by samskeyti



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-06
Updated: 2011-03-06
Packaged: 2017-10-17 15:15:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samskeyti/pseuds/samskeyti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a tiny commentfic: Arthur, Eames and the Age of Sail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	commentfic - a scene from the HMS Dainty

It's no great feat to know the stars, the men live by them, grow from lads reading them yet Captain Eames walks the deck some clear nights so he can rest a hand on the ship's rail, raise a small eyeglass or perhaps a cigar, depending upon his mood and inhale as long and as intently as possible, drinking in the dark, the quiet and its stubborn stars in a draught so deep it burns. He exhales, almost a cough. He rubs at his waistcoat. The sea lifts then slides back from the boat, returns and goes, and again. The colour of the moon or of neglected silver and perhaps the sound of the moon too, pushing and turning its way through the sky.

Someone whistles further down the deck, not an Irish tune nor a jaunt for tin-whistle, not even a carriage for a bawdy rhyme but a dance, French most likely and the whistler has dispensed with frills and sentiment, delivering the song in a clear, even tone that fills the darkness over the deck. Eames swallows, determined not to bluster or perhaps best, breathe until the song ends. He draws closer and slips his glass into his coat.

And it confers no distinction for a man to carry a tune and to know the heavens, such things are commonplace yet as the clouds shift enough to show the man sitting on the deck, knees bent to balance a book as he holds a small telescope in his left hand, quill in the other as he gazes at the sky, marking notes on his page without looking, inking his trousers no doubt as he keeps his lips precisely, firmly, barely — like the mouth of a sculpture — open around his song, Eames watches him. He stares, perhaps. He can count every fine quality in these first moments of looking, even if to list them individually would take them to dawn. Eames knows them all, and the rush of recognition is like a dive into the surf. He expects to taste the sea on his lips but he's licking dry skin and tobacco when Arthur lowers his telescope, interrupts his song and turns to offer Eames a spot on the deck beside him. He gestures with his quill, a cuff edged in lace (mysteriously clean and intact, Eames is baffled each time he looks) falling around his wrist.

Arthur waves his quill at the stars, rattles off some Latin and some figures and laughs, his eyes crinkled nearly closed, chin lifted so the moonlight falls along his jaw and lower lip. He gestures again, ink spattering the floor.

Eames crouches and settles beside him and Arthur leans against his shoulder to place the telescope in Eames' hands, murmurs that he believes — he shall enquire with the Royal Society of course — that he can name this one, as he guides the instrument. Stop, he says, there. Do you see? Arthur doesn't have the eyepiece, but he hovers by Eames' ear, his breath as thrilled and warm as the laugh Eames gives when he says he thinks he does.

Only Arthur would find his own star, he might have known. He curls his hand a fraction further around the brass, covering a shade, a knuckle more of Arthur's fingers and is waiting for a sigh or a fidget when Arthur hums, soft and sly or a forgetful ghost of a tune, Eames can't tell, although he vows to not move or speak or look away from the star for as long as Arthur's song may take.


End file.
